“You are mistaken about me,” said Reynevan. “For I, as you see, have given up being the naive idealist—by applying your wise teachings, as a matter of fact. I’ve gone over to calculated pragmatism and practicalism, acquired appropriate convictions and principles. Concluding that my own interests are more important than other men’s, and that one should always have a contingency plan up one’s sleeve. If you’re going to believe in anything, it’s best to believe in Hungarian gold ducats which can buy various kinds of loyalty. Your vassals don’t return from their expedition for two days and your foot soldiers are under lock and key. As you soon will be. In a cell. We, however, are leaving.”

“Congratulations, Scharley,” said Horn, crossing his arms on his chest. “My congratulations, for I know it’s your plan and your operation. By considering himself a cunning man of action, Reinmar flatters himself too much. Ah well, you win, I lose. There are three of you, not counting that turncoat with the crossbow, whom by God I shall take to task one day. But you, Scharley, have disappointed me. I thought you were a man.”

“Horn,” interrupted Scharley. “Get to the point. Or get into the cell.”

“Would you threaten me with a cell if there were only the two of us? You and me? One against one? Le combat singulier? Wouldn’t you like to find out what would happen then?”

Samson shook his head. Reynevan opened his mouth, but Scharley quietened him with a gesture.

“Very well, let’s find out what would happen. Do you really want that?”

Horn didn’t reply. Instead, he sprang forwards and kicked Scharley hard in the chest. The penitent flew back towards the whitewashed wall, slammed his back against it and quickly dodged, but Horn was quicker. He was on him, struck him in the jaw with a right hook, then a left, and Scharley fell, smashing a stool. Horn was upon him, winding up for a kick. The penitent wriggled away, caught Horn’s leg in both hands and threw him to the ground. They leaped to their feet almost simultaneously. But that was the end of the fight. Horn swung and Scharley avoided the punch with a subtle, almost imperceptible movement, punched Horn hard in the chin, then slammed him with a hook, spun around and elbowed him in the face, spun again and hit him with his forearm, and then punched him, spinning the other way. After the final blow, Horn was unfit to continue fighting. Just to make sure, the penitent punched him very hard one more time, then kicked him, flooring him once and for all.

“Well, that’s probably enough,” he said, wiping his lip and spitting blood. “Now we know. To the cell, Horn.”